If you have good parents, live in a nice neighborhood, and go to well-off schools you shouldn’t have any problems. Right?The opposite, of course, is true as teens living in elevated socioeconomic areas are destroying their lives at higher rates than ever before. Our next blogger was one such teen. These are his shoes… 9.2.18

Path2Empathy has had the privilege of learning and seeing the importance of clean water from 7th-grade student Tariku Savage and his mom, Amy. They have inspired their school and community to combat our world's water crisis by building wells in Africa. These are their shoes. 7.27.18

It's one thing to study a culture, it's another to go and embrace what it is. With great faith, MD Deysher left her home to live in Malawi, Africa to help children and those seeking medical attention. She has never been trained in the medical field but went to support and offer friendship to those in need. These are her shoes. 6.30.18

Schools are out for summer! But what will you do with your kids over the break? Take some advice from parent/teacher Edi Pettegrew to encourage an empathy building summer. 5.28.18

The best stories of empathy are often because people go back to a place of fear or pain in order to help others. Mandy Cooke is no exception. Take a walk in her shoes as a teacher and Columbine survivor. 4.19.18

The best advice a parent can get can be from those who daily walk in the shoes of our teenagers. In a time where we are looking for answers to the social trauma teens face, here is a perspective from speaker, author, and teen expert, Mike Donahue. 04.02.2018

On a random night, Amy Savage found common ground, respect, and unexpected admiration for an unlikely friend. Read her powerful empathy encounter. 02.28.18

Author, mother, PhD, and champion for kindness, Tara Cousineau, has given meaningful connection between empathy and kindness. Read the excerpt from her new book in this addition of Our Shoes. 01.30.18

Bob Clifton has reflected on 2017 and found a valuable lesson in empathy when looking at his own shoes. 12.29.17

These beautiful feet know no bounds. Meredith's path is one of courage and adventure. Take a walk in her shoes, we will "see you at the finish line." 11.28.17

We don't have to go far from home to experience the healing power of empathy...these are Heather's (and her grandma's) shoes. 11.1.17

Tips for showing empathy for those you may not relate to in our latest Our Shoes Blog. 9.24.17

No better way to start the school year than by walking in the shoes of a student. Here is Ty's perspective on being a 6th grader and how words matter. 7.31.17

As a young girl Ann Doolan-Fox had a dream of living in the US. This is her Path2Citizenship. 6.30.17

True beauty comes with its own difficult path. These are recoding artist/model Katie Jae's shoes. 5.25.17

Put your children's feet in another's shoes through the power of books, by Nora Earnest. 4.24.17

Empathy isn't easy. Take a real walk in the shoes of this sister holding on to hope and love. 3.20.17

Empathy is needed everywhere...even at the highest level in sports. Go for a run in the shoes of collegiate athletic trainer Mark Peters. 2.12.17

History is made by people like Courtney A. Metzger. His daughter, Claire, honors him in P2E's latest blog. 1.17.17

Jennicca Mabe's thoughts on empathy and forgiveness. 12.23.16

Loving an animal can be a journey. These are Jared Montoya's shoes. 11.30.16

Angie Dawson's powerful Path2Empathy. These are her shoes... 1.4.16

Carrie Block's Shoes & Her Path2Empathy 12.10.15

An Invitation for Empathy & Jennicca Mabes's Path2Empathy 11.22.15

Living in the country for most of my childhood meant working with animals and facing the realities of an animal’s life. I must have been six or seven the first time I helped my father slaughter the chickens and turkeys we had spent the summer raising. I always felt a little sad and once we staged a protest to save one of the turkeys we loved. But the realities were that if we didn’t eat the chickens and turkeys, we didn’t have much to eat. Even though our protest hadn’t worked, we didn’t hesitate to enjoy the meal. The other animals we had, goats, horses, geese, cats and dogs served more of a functional purpose and although we really loved having them, we didn’t consider a part of the family.

Around my middle school years, we moved out of the country and sold our animals. We kept a couple of cats and dogs to have as pets. I liked having the cats and dogs but never found myself extremely emotionally attached to the dogs. When I was in 9th grade, one of our cats was hit by a car and had to be put down. We were all sad, but I was used to animals dying and I got over it as soon as we got another cat. As I grew up, went to college and started my career I encountered people who were extremely distraught over having lost a pet. I thought it was ridiculous that someone would be so torn up over the loss of a pet. I recall coworkers taking the day off because of this and I had not only a lack of compassion, but a bit of disdain for them. I couldn’t fathom the idea of grieving due to the loss of a pet.

For the past ten to twelve years, my children have wanted pets. We have had the occasional beta fish and we had a turtle. The beta fish each had their own life story and when they died, the kids were sad and we moved on to the next fish. My children always asked for a dog or a cat and the answer was always no. Three years ago, we went to the pet store to purchase some food for the little turtle we had at home. It happened to be the day that the local animal shelter held pet adoptions. When I walked around the corner, I saw the most beautiful, black Great Dane. He was about 18 months old and was the sweetest dog. Up to this point, I generally avoided dogs and didn’t understand how or why people loved their dogs.

I immediately felt connected to this dog and by the end of the day; we had signed the adoption forms. We welcomed Polo with open arms into our life. This was the beginning of the journey of raising this amazing dog that followed me everywhere and played with me every day. When I had to travel out of town for work, he would get depressed and only ate minimally until I returned home. I spent a lot of time working from home and became accustomed to having Polo by my side during the day. Polo would often interrupt my work because he wanted to play and I would take several breaks to play tug-of-war. The 140lb dog gave me a workout whenever we would play. Whenever we sat down to watch TV, he would try to sit on our laps and often took our spots on the couch. On a few occasions, he even tried to kick the kids out of their beds and take over.

One of our favorite games was for the boys to keep the dog in one of the rooms with the door closed while I hid in another part of the house. When I had secured the best hiding spot, I would yell to the boys that I was ready and they would open the door. Polo would immediately race down the hall searching for me. He would go immediately to the last place he had found me and when I wasn’t there, he would race through the house searching for me. I usually had to give him a hint by making a noise or two. Then, he would barrel toward me and jump all over me. He made a great addition to our family and even my wife who does not like animals grew to enjoy having him around.

During the summer of 2015, we noticed that Polo had some lumps under his chin and I took him to the vet. After several tests, the vet told me that he had lymphoma and that he only had several months to live. I was devastated. I was sad for him, for my kids and for myself. I remember going home to tell my boys that he was going to die. Diego, my youngest, ran to his room and hid under his bed upon hearing the bad news. It was a very sad next few months. We decided that we would enjoy the last months with him and when he began to suffer, we would take him to the vet to have him put down.

By October, his health had deteriorated and it was time to put him down. The boys decided that they did not want to go to the vet with me so I would have to do it alone. That morning, everyone had left to school and my wife had gone to work. I was alone with Polo and had a little time before his morning appointment. I decided to play hide and go seek one last time and to play one last time. He chased me through the house, jumped all over me as much as he could and there was a flood of emotions that I had not expected.

By the time I arrived at the vet, I felt overcome with sadness and guilt. I knew it was the right thing to do, but I felt so guilty for ending his life even though there was nothing more I could do for him. I could hardly speak to the staff at the vet clinic because I sat on the verge of losing control of my emotions at every moment. I knew I didn’t have it in me to witness the event so I turned him over to the vet and said my goodbyes to my sweet, loving playmate. When I got to my car, safely out of public view, I began to weep. I wept and began to tremble and the pain was horrible. I had never in my life mourned for an animal in this manner. In that moment, I became one of those for whom I had lacked compassion and was filled with empathy for anyone who had ever loved and lost their pet.

Animals see us the way we want to be seen. They never judge and are always ready for the next round of hide and seek. I learned a lot from the playful, unconditional love of Polo and I am grateful for my time with him, he forever changed me.

Jared Montoya- Professor, Pet Lover

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When I got my first job out of college, I was working as a counselor to elderly adults with schizophrenia. By this time in my life, I had obsessively embraced differences in others and enjoyed an existence like a rainbow. I shook my head when I would read social media statuses written by my peers that glorified their own “us” in their world and vilified whatever “them” they spoke of. One such status was written by a person who never left my hometown, who spoke about how all the “drug-addict crazies were taking advantage of our governmental resources”. This person argued that those people need to “snap out of it, grow up and stop mooching off of my taxes.” The same day, one of the residents at the place I worked, who was surviving on government assistance, did not come down to take her medications. I went to her apartment and she was sitting in soiled underwear on her bed and staring at her dining room table without blinking. I asked her what was going on and she told me with great detail about what I couldn’t see. To her, she was the guardian of a small population of people who lived under her table. Recently, the city bus in her world had changed its schedule, and today it never came. This world had a bad rainstorm and she was worried about them, so she vowed not to leave them until they were safe on the bus. This was why she didn’t come for her medications and why she couldn’t go to her own bathroom.

She knew I couldn’t see the same world as her, but I knew that by me pointing out reality, she would become distressed and/or angry with me for challenging her own reality. Imagine if you were the only one who saw the sky as red and everyone insisted that it was blue. Instead of trying to convince her that she was having another delusion, I sat on her bed with her and looked at the table for a few minutes in silence. I asked her if it was “ok” for me to sit with her and she told me that was “ok” and that I was also helping the people feel safe. I asked her to tell me about the world under her table, and she took me on a journey full of details and plot lines.

After a while, I reminded her of why it was important to take her medications on time. I could have easily brought her medications to her room for her, but I knew that by doing that it would only help short-term. Then, I pulled out my cell phone and told her that I knew someone who could help her town. I fake-dialed on my phone and told her I had gotten through with the dispatch from the bus company. She looked at me and away from the table for the first time. I filed a fake-complaint and told her that the dispatcher informed me that the bus would be there in two minutes. I put my phone down and we counted down the seconds. The bus came and left, but it was still late…4 minutes and 20 seconds. I told her that we would write a letter that I would “mail” to complain about the bus schedule. She agreed that when the bus timetable started getting messy again in the future, she would come to me or to one of the other residents so we could make a call.

That night as I sat on her bed, it wasn’t her world or my world. It was her world that I became part of. I didn’t see the people, but I imagined them there under the table. I felt stress as I thought about the pressure she must feel every day thinking she is responsible for their safety. I thought about how she didn’t always see the people under the table when she was having a healthy spell, but always lived with the knowledge that they can and will come back…and there was nothing she could do about it. I thought about the sadness she had for knowing that she was mentally ill and that most of the world saw her as dangerous, dirty, outcast, and misunderstood. My heart broke as I thought about the intelligence she possessed and the college degree she had and could never use. It broke for the family and friends who put her away in a facility so they could distance themselves to continue their own lives. It broke for her dreams that died the day she tried to take her own life 30 years prior. Others like her, or the individuals with intellectual disabilities, I went on to work with, challenge me to try to imagine that my life could be very different with an extra chromosome or a chemical imbalance. By the luck of the draw, I didn’t need to know those struggles first hand.

Empathy is about much more than trying to see the world from another's perspective. For me, empathy is a contract I have with the world to live as an “us” and leave behind a concept of “them”. We need each other. We need disabled people just as much as “they” need “us”, if only to remind us that there are always two sides to an ever flipping coin. Entering into a empathy contract is not easy. It means being challenged every day to find ways to open our minds to other points of view. It means asking millions of questions, listening, and lifelong education about what it means to be alive for each person, no matter how much that person rubs us the wrong way. Empathy is something that needs to be extended before you learn the hard way that you may need empathy yourself one day. It is teaching the next generation to think independently, to love outside of their comfort zone, and to keep fighting for the collective “us”. It is a heart-breaking journey to feel other’s struggles right along with them. But, it’s also a beautiful journey to experience those magical moments when people come together to do the right thing. Empathy includes a special kind of joy that is hard-earned and fluid between others like “us”.

Currently, I am traveling around the world. I know some people think I ask too many questions. I also know that some are grateful that I am asking questions and not basing my judgements upon external influences. It can be fun when you can look past the poverty to find a poet, or to find someone completely different from you who has the same favorite movie. At my core, I want to know humanity. I want to know what works and what is broken in our world. Sometimes I am overwhelmed with so much love for everyone that I feel like I am going to burst. Other times, I find myself weeping because I can’t fix what’s broken. In the words of the individuals with intellectual disabilities I worked with for many years, they don’t want “sympathy”, or people to feel bad for them. They want “empathy”. I know I can’t fix the world, but I am trying to find little ways to empower those I see with needs to be able to fix themselves. After all, “they” want to be an “us” as well.

Katy Armstrong- Making Empathy Contracts Around the World

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We are 4 days out from the first infusion of chemotherapy drugs. Stacey is running a low-grade fever. Her body is at war. She’s on the couch sleeping. Right now, it feels like our whole existence is a big mess.

August 1st was a cruel day. That day Stacey received a call from her breast surgeon with the diagnosis; the cancer has returned – Stage 1. Aren’t we lucky to have caught it so early? Yes…so lucky. Just a few hours earlier we had received the news that our friend had passed away after his 7-year battle with cancer. I was at home with our children and sat them down to tell them what had happened to our friend. To pray with them and for all of our friends who were grieving in that moment. To pray for Stacey who was also grieving. Stacey didn’t tell me of her diagnosis until she got home and my first thought was for our kids. Great – we just had a conversation about cancer and death, how am I going to handle this news?

This story started a little more than 6 years ago when Stacey was first diagnosed with breast cancer. It was a scary time, we had no idea what to expect. Stacey was in her mid 30s. Our two children were just starting in elementary school. Stacey elected to have a double mastectomy and reconstruction. The doctors said the chances of recurrence were extremely small. Probability statistics are not very meaningful when it turns out YOU are the 1 in 200.

Now, I’m dealing with all of this again, but differently. I’m older and we’ve covered a lot of ground in the last 6 years. There’s a continuum of people with loving concern and support on one end and fear and required assurance on the other. Our network of friends and family scattered all along that continuum. What does Stacey need? What do we need?

For two normally private people who have a hard time receiving from others – this is a difficult time. I know I need friends in my life, and I want to have stronger relationships and more intimate friends. But how do I balance setting good boundaries now and being open to receiving good care? The truth is we have a lot of needs (hard for me to even type out those words let alone publish them for the world to read or say them out loud). But when I think of asking for help I think back to one experience I had abroad...

After graduating high school, I was accepted into the Rotary Club International’s exchange program to spend a year in France. As Spring Break of that year approached it was clear that the Rotary Club was unsure what to do with me. All of my host families had made plans and the Rotarians wanted me to have a good week. The head of the local chapter approached me with an idea. “Would you like to go skiing?” I’d go alone, all expenses paid to the small village of L'Argentière-la-Bessée, where my ski guide would pick me up and take me to the mountain hostel where I would join his other clients for a week of guided backcountry skiing (ski de randonée).

I think he barely finished the words “skiing” before I said YES!!! Spring Break came and as I boarded the train my host mother asked me if I had enough money? Oh yeah, I said. I had a whopping 450 Francs in my pocket – at that time about the equivalent of $50. I spent a few dollars during the train ride to get a snack. When I arrived in the Alps it was dumping snow. Could it be any more perfect?

We stopped to have drinks after lunch each day, and my fellow skiers suggested that we each take turns buying a round of coffee for the group. Of course, I wanted to participate and quickly calculated that would take about $30 of what remained of my $50. I started to get nervous that something would happen and I would be stuck without money. I knew I would forego eating on the train ride home.

The week was amazing, but I had managed on the bare minimum, skiing during the day and reading in the sitting room in the evenings, happily falling exhausted into my spartan bunk every night. I had only brought one pair of wool ski socks with me on this trip, and had worn them daily. I also had not thought to bring soap or shampoo with me. So each night I took a hot shower and tried to rinse the stink off from skiing. But by this time I was starting to smell bad, and my socks were the worst of it. I would hang them every evening to dry out and be ready to go the next day. This last night of the trip, I hung them in my cubby where I was keeping my stuff and crawled into my upper bunk in the co-ed dormitory of the hostel. Everyone was in bed and the lights were out when I heard a few of the women start to chatter. “What is that smell!?”

“Oh pew – something stinks!”

One of the women accused a guy in a voice loud enough to hear, “It’s that guy from Paris”.

Then he said back, “No, it’s the American”… I was caught. I lay as still as I could in my bed, mortified, feeling like there was no escape. Maybe if I just pretended to be asleep.

The next morning I “slept in” staying under the sheet of my bunk until I was sure everyone had left the hostel. As I gathered my things to leave, I noticed that the man I had been skiing with left his body wash on top of my cubby (so I couldn’t miss it). I grabbed the bottle and hit the shower, my first with soap in over a week. It felt good to be genuinely clean and not just rinsed off. I got lucky that someone noticed and decided to help.

Why did I tell you about my ski vacation in the French Alps? Because I’ve realized in the last year, my life is a lot like that story. I am incredibly lucky – my children are healthy, I love my house, and I love my work. I have everything I need to survive and I have people who love me, but my wife is sick and from time to time I may need to just ask for help.

Like in my story, most of the time I choose to buy a round of drinks for my friends and skip the soap. It’s OK, how can I possibly complain? Why didn’t I tell my host mom that I only had $50? Why didn’t I ask my skiing companions if I could borrow some soap? Why didn’t I let anybody know that I didn’t have any money left to buy something to eat on the train ride home?

I’m trying not to live that way anymore. I’m trying to be more vulnerable and hopefully more interconnected. I plan to let people know when I need some soap. And even if no one responds, it’s OK because I’m still skiing in the Alps! But at least I won’t be suffering any longer because of my own silence and self-abuse. Walking in my own smelly shoes for a week taught me that being vulnerable is better than looking like I have it all under control. It’s easier to express empathy for those around us if we know where they are at. Unless we can be vulnerable, it’s hard to know what is needed, smelly socks and all.

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Shoes. We all have them and we all walk a unique path in life wearing a variety of shoes. My dad’s shoes were a bit different, both literally and metaphorically. I have many stories of how I have learned empathy over the course of my life, but when I think of the most impactful and continuous lesson of empathy, I think of my dad. In his youth and early adulthood, Dad was a man who played football, who served in the Navy, and who was a strong-willed husband and father. I never knew that man. I only saw that man in pictures because I was born long after my father contracted Polio when he was 30. I’m the youngest of four sisters. When Polio struck the family, two of my older sisters were three and five and my mother was pregnant with my sister who is closest to me in age. I was born three years after my father’s fight with polio. It was a long battle. My mother was told multiple times he wouldn’t make it, but true to my dad’s fighter instincts, he did. The man always saw the world and the glass as overflowing, never even half-full. He survived and went on to walk on crutches for most of his life. That was how his shoes were different. He had braces on his shoes and crutches became his other two “shoes” as he walked through life.

I don’t know what that struggle looked like as he regained enough strength to learn to walk, but I can tell you that in the years that I was blessed to have him as my father, I never saw the man act like he was handicapped. He was a talented engineer who led the construction of the Eisenhower Tunnel and went on to become a well-known expert witness in the field of civil engineering. He never complained, he never displayed frustration with his disability, and I honestly never saw him as anything but the strongest man I’ve ever known. To me he never appeared to be handicapped. He loved sports, but could never play them. We took back road driving adventures because he couldn’t hike. We were his feet and workers when he needed something done that he couldn’t do, and he turned it into a game. I never felt sorry for him, because he wouldn’t have it. If anyone called him “crippled” he would win them over with his positivity and charismatic nature. Everyone loved him, believed in him, and respected him. The day he was laid to rest in 2011 at the age of 85, the church overflowed and couldn’t contain the people who came to pay tribute to him.

The story above alone demonstrates an ongoing lesson in empathy, but there was even something stronger that my father taught me about empathy, and it explains why people came from all over the country to say goodbye. My father was overjoyed to learn about and celebrate everyone’s unique path in life. Regardless of who they were, each got my father’s amazing smile, inquisitive nature, true interest in their story, and sense of humor. Dad was funny, smart, and completely engaging. I remember many times he took me to a construction site to meet and talk with the guys in the field and other times to have dinner with a high-flying CEO. He was the same man with both, completely authentic and genuine in his ability to care about others. He cared so much that as he became weakened by post-polio syndrome later in life, he didn’t want to shut down his business and let down his staff. Unfortunately, the business was built on his expert witness skills, so the business eventually struggled to survive.

The last three years of my dad’s life he was penniless, but he didn’t care. Even when he had lost the ability to do anything but talk and lay in bed, he still sang to us and told jokes and stories from the past. Even on his last day of life as he lay in a coma, he cracked a tiny smile when we told him a funny story. He never lost hope and he never complained. The world could be crashing down around him and he would find the silver lining. That day I knew I had lost the physical presence of one of my greatest teachers. I miss him every day, but he lives on each time I remember to walk in his shoes. While I have served many roles in my life, daughter, wife, mother, teacher, I always try to remember that I am my best when I fall back to my true self because of the authenticity and positivity I learned from my father. He taught me to walk humbly and proudly on the path to empathy.

My path to empathy began with Murphy’s Law. As a military spouse of almost 18 years (ok, 13 married, 5 long distance girlfriend), I have learned so much about empathy. I have learned that the military life is great with a few hardships along the way and the best way to survive is with a ton of patience, empathy, and a little grace. Now when I say grace, I mean, leeway, forgiveness, wiggle room, or a wink and a nod with a mutual understanding of “you got this, it’s ok,” said with pure, genuine empathy.

Murphy’s Law hits hard the second he deploys. I swear, the wheels on the plane barely lift off and it will start to snow. The truck will break down. The kids will act bonkers and develop some weird rash. The furnace is making a weird sound – wait, is that smoke I smell? My job has a really early meeting, soccer and football are at the exact same time at two different locations and we’re missing a cleat, and the dog keeps dropping the darn slimy tennis ball in my lap.

You would think the first thing I would empathize for is my spouse, but funny, he’s the last one I learned to do this for and honestly I still struggle. He’s the last person I give grace to but is definitely the most deserving. This is something I am working on. The first person I relate to and empathize the most for is the military spouse, as I truly understand their sacrifice, commitment, and courage.

I learned empathy through sacrifice and through sacrifice grew strength in commitment and courage. Each move meant starting over. Finding the perfect house, the right school, the best and safest neighborhood. Praying the kids make friends easily. Praying I make new friends easily. Searching for a job. Again. And routine. Again. This takes courage and is exhausting. Realizing the only job that will fit is a variety of small paying gigs so I can do the most important job, parenting. Fighting resentment. Why does he get to be the hero, travel the world, and be the hot topic of every conversation? When is it my turn to have my career be priority? Being glued to your phone, waiting for a phone call. Being nervous to watch the news. Missing phone calls. Missing my family. Missing my friends. Missing familiarity. We move forward. We march on with a sigh, a brace of the shoulders, and grace.

I have empathy for those spouses who have been hardened by deployments, training schedules, and moving. Those who don’t want to ask for help because she may seem weak, incapable, or God forbid, dependent. I empathize with those who don’t have their ducks in a row, put on a happy face, YouTube the heck out of any problem while fighting back tears of frustration and anger, and are occasionally (or always) late.

The best part of military life is the friends that I have made. I have learned that battle buddies are not just for soldiers. My best friends come from all over the world and have given me the best pep talks, morale boosters, in your face drill sergeant orders, and laughter when I needed it the most. They have empathized with me and given me so much grace. When I thanked my good friend for being in my foxhole she replied, “I'll dig the hole, I'll share my chow. I got you, buddy.” We need more battle buddies in our foxholes.

I have so much empathy for my kids. My kids have dealt with a ton. They have moved. They have watched friends move away. They have learned and relearned the meaning of normal. They are very familiar with Dad working late, never having a normal schedule, or not being home at all. Deployments were easier when they were younger. When they were little, it was really just missing Dad. But now that they are older, we add worry. Every time they hear the word Afghanistan on TV, they shoot me a look of worry, of knowledge of a country that is dangerous, and even anger because that country has our Dad and we don’t. They have learned to make the most of the short phone calls, written letters, drawings, and sending packages. My kids are resilient, strong, and brave. They take charge and lead. They are responsible, kind, and motivated. And darn it, they are sad. I wish more than anything that their Dad was here to share in the daily grind with them.

I also empathize with the sacrifice of the soldier. My husband has missed so many birthdays, holidays and firsts. First day of school, first lost tooth, first touchdown, first dance recital. First, second, thirds. He has missed our home, our routine, the kids growing up. I need to give him grace and remember that he has a lot on his shoulders. He has his brothers to keep safe, a team counting on him to lead. He has command to answer to. He needs to take care of himself. And then he has us. He’s providing for our family. He’s doing his best at balancing work and family. I need to give him more grace with that. I need to understand that he is very busy; that he can’t tell me what he’s doing, and that he’s still madly in love with me. He needs to understand that we are good; we are behind him, supporting him, cheering him on until he gets home.

It’s what we do with our empathy that defines us. You can empathize with others, but can you give them grace? Can you forgive them for being late, brushing you off, not calling right away, working too hard? I’m not saying everyday is a train wreck. We usually thrive; we stay busy and we keep on…but we have our moments. With that, we learn to take that moment, take a deep breath, listen to our pep talk, dig deep in our foxhole, and march forward. I’ll admit, yesterday was tough but thankfully, today is a new day. Let’s give ourselves the grace of a fresh start.

My path to empathy has had many stops along the way but I believe the most important steps are yet to come. I’ve had some great experiences in my life and met incredible people who have helped me on this journey, but I’m still walking the path; still learning, practicing, making mistakes, and starting again. I know that my life and my character would be vastly different without each and every moment I have experienced, but there are two elements that have been a part of my journey from the start and are, as a result, my biggest influence and most respected teachers of empathy: my mother and my books.

I credit my mother with my successes because none of them would be possible without her. From my earliest years, she taught me understanding, acceptance, leadership, and friendship. Whether through Girl Scouts or lending a hand to a struggling parent, my mother showed me with her actions what it means to be there for someone else. Through her example, I learned to volunteer my help, befriend everyone, and respect differences. My mother rarely mentioned it but I know now that the empathy she gave to others was not always returned in kind. My mother is white and my father is Indian, a union that was not always met with acceptance and approval. Her children, on whom she lavished love and attention, were often mistaken as someone else’s or adoptees because we did not “look” like her. These moments were hurtful and even at times heart-breaking, but they did not harden her heart or close her off. Instead, they renewed her efforts to ensure her own children grew up feeling loved, valued, and accepted. As a result, we have grown up to be adults who value those traits and can share them with others.

More recently I watched her take care of her aging mother. As my grandmother got progressively worse and more difficult to care for, I watched my mother struggle and push herself to walk in my grandmother’s shoes. Visits were draining and difficult but my mother always went. She would return exhausted but when I suggested she could skip a visit she would refuse, insisting that as hard as it was, she knew my grandmother needed the company. As my grandmother’s dementia worsened and her awareness declined, my mother still decorated my grandmother’s room, brought her quilts and presents, and kept her connected with family members. Through it all she recognized my grandmother’s struggle and consistently put herself in my grandmother’s shoes, doing the things she knew my grandmother needed and deserved. It takes effort and willingness to empathize with another but it takes true courage and strength to turn that empathy into action. I’m not sure that I would have been strong enough to do as my mother did, but I am hopeful that her example has pushed me closer to that ability.

For me, some of the most significant stops on my path to empathy have occurred not from my own personal relationships, but from my experiences while reading. Characters from Atticus Finch to Mr. Darcy to Percy Jackson have rewarded me with the opportunity to see and experience the world from someone else’s perspective. In those moments their past and present replace my own. The triumphs of each character become my own celebrations and each obstacle or failure, my own defeat. The privilege of these encounters is that I am able to emerge renewed and changed, my worldview broadened, and my understanding of the human experience expanded. The lessons I learn carry through to my personal relationships and everyday interactions so that I can more easily understand the individuals, groups, and society around me. I think at the base of every interaction is a desire to be understood, and empathy, no matter how we have learned it, is the key to achieving that. I am fortunate that I was raised with access to books with characters who could teach and guide me, and as I continue on my journey I know I’ll be moved along the path to empathy by the new faces I meet beneath each cover.

I’m incredibly grateful for all of the experiences in my life that have helped me on my personal path to empathy. I know that I have so much more to learn and I am thankful that my mother and my books have given me a strong foundation and a continuous source of fuel for the journey. I’m not there yet, but I will get there, one step at a time.

Empathy and politics...hmmmm, please don’t stop reading because I used those words in the same sentence! HA!

When I think of the idea of America being united I think to the fall of 2001 when people, lives, and buildings were destroyed by airplanes. After 9/11, Democrats, Republicans, and everyone else worked together to form a bond that is: America. This linking of arms came because there was tragedy, loss, and an act of war committed on unprovoked Americans...on us. We laid down the burden of our differences; black, brown, white, young, old, male, female, and even if it was just for a moment, we worked together, grieved together, and loved each other.

Fifteen years later, we are already knee-deep in the mudslinging and arguing of an election year. I wonder how much more the American heart can take? I understand the need to debate, disagree, or even struggle through issues together, but I wouldn’t use the word “together” to describe us. We seem to keep getting further and further apart.

In preparation for this blog post I asked myself one question: “When is the last time I put myself in the shoes of someone I completely disagreed with?” (cricket, cricket)

Oh, the all-consuming virtue of empathy!

It’s painless for me to be empathetic when I surround myself with people who are just like me. If I can relate, understand, or agree with you then I can easily put myself in your shoes. It’s natural to want to support our circle of friends but it won’t move the mountains of hate, racism, sexism, and abuse in our world.

Wait...so I need to walk with someone I disagree with, or even, dare I say, who is my enemy? (GULP) Where do we even begin with that one? Luckily, some very wise people have gone before us.

In the words of former president Abraham Lincoln, “I don’t like that man, I must get to know him better.” WOW, but Abe, how does one embark on that humanity challenge during an election year?

One of the most beautiful things about empathy is that it can be practiced by and on any human being. You can be any gender, political party, race, religion, socioeconomic status, age, walking on the moon or on the ocean floor, and be a carrier and a receiver of empathy. Those who practice it with the “other side” have laid down the the burden of always being right in order to know and really see others. In my observations, here is how we get there:

Listen. Longer. Longer than what feels comfortable. I’ve learned the importance of listening from Jer Swigart and his work with The Global Immersion Project. He provides people of all race and religion a place to dialog for peace. Way to go Jer!! Instead of formulating the argument or changing the channel before the other side has finished speaking, make yourself stop and listen longer.

Be kind. Disagree with dignity. In dialoguing with our audience in a P2E session this summer, one woman said, “We (as Americans) think that if we disagree with someone we must then insult them. And on the flip side, if someone disagrees with us we immediately feel we have been insulted.” This way of thinking will only lead us further and further apart. Don’t insult, even if who you are speaking to is someone who isn’t playing by the same rules. If you can disagree with dignity it won’t be difficult to look in the mirror the next morning.

Find something to respect in every person. Don’t just tolerate. Maybe it’s that they are dedicated to a cause, passionate, or hard-working in their pursuit of knowledge or justice. When our focus is to disagree we blind ourselves to the respectable qualities of those opposing us. If we seek to understand we can more easily see that, whether we agree or disagree, we all have qualities that deserve respect.

Be available. Don’t avoid everyone who disagrees with you and surround yourself with only those who are on “your side”. (aka. Democrat huddles, Republican huddles, “fill in the blank” huddles.)

Be humble. Acknowledge a good point. You will probably shock ‘em with this one!

Keep in mind they probably have people somewhere who love and depend on them. It’s difficult to hate when you imagine a person is a father or mother, son or daughter.

Be empathy. After going through all these steps, use your imagination and walk in their shoes. Ask yourself why or if they are really that different than you? Emotion aside, what is something you may have in common? What are your non-negotiables? How can you convey your non-negotiables in a way that keeps the relationship in tact?

If we can practice some of these steps, you and I together can slowly change what we all see in so many places in our world. Not just politics. Who knows? Maybe someday those running for office will say phrases like:

“I’ve made some good decisions and some bad ones. But this is what I’ve learned from my mistakes...”

“Leading anything is difficult, but I will do my best. I’m a human just like you. I won’t be perfect, and that is where my strength lies.”

“I really respect that my opponent did...”

“I disagree with the stance my opponent takes on… but we can work together.”

“I won’t lie. I won’t cheat. And if I do, I will tell you.”

What happens in Washington may seem so far removed from you and your situation but we each can move towards empathy even if those around us are not, no matter what the topic.

Finally, the only reference to a people group in The Star-Spangled Banner is a “we” statement. It’s not us or them...just we. It is imperative to remember that from now until November and beyond.

I have heard these two phrases many times over the course of the last eight years, but one person uttered these words with the profound empathy of someone who had truly walked in my shoes.

My friend Jessica was diagnosed with breast cancer approximately four months before I received my own diagnosis of Stage IV Hodgkin Lymphoma. Despite living in different parts of the country (me in Colorado and she in Washington DC), Jessica keenly understood my struggle and the unique challenges faced by a young wife and mother with cancer. She experienced the humiliation of losing her hair. She saw the sympathetic eyes of strangers skip over her face and land on her head scarf. She knew the internal drive to be the best mother she could possibly be, because she didn’t know how long she would be afforded the opportunity. And yet, despite her own fatigue and worry, she phoned me before every one of my chemotherapy treatments to say, “I’m sorry you have to go through this. I’m here for you.”

As seven months of chemotherapy and radiation therapy drew to a close, I eagerly sought the empathetic words of my friend. Having recently completed her own treatment regimen, Jessica understood my seemingly irrational desire to want treatment to continue. She understood that chemotherapy, while physically taxing and emotionally draining, was a security blanket - it offered protection from my body’s own immune system, something I could no longer trust to keep me cancer-free. As the fear of an uncertain future overtook me, Jessica responded, “I’m sorry you have to go through this. I’m here for you.”

News of Jessica’s relapse came first. Within months, my own relapse was diagnosed. Through it all, the phone calls and words of encouragement never ceased. We both faced additional and riskier treatment. Jessica underwent radiation therapy to the brain while I endured a new regimen of high-dose chemotherapy and additional radiation.

As our bodies began to recover from the onslaught of toxic cancer treatment, I flew to Washington DC to spend a weekend with my friend. Fall was in the air as we purchased pumpkins, walked through wooded trails, and cheered at her son’s soccer game. I returned to Colorado with a deep gratitude for our friendship and an even deeper respect for Jessica’s strength.

My second relapse was diagnosed within six months. As I came to terms with the stark reality of what the next phase of cancer treatment entailed, Jessica’s reality was far worse. She had entered hospice care. Upon learning of Jessica’s prognosis, I immediately picked up the phone and left her a voice message. “I’m sorry you have to go through this. I’m here for you.”

Jessica passed away during a time in which my oncologist was searching for someone who would be willing to donate his or her stem cells to me in a last ditch effort to cure my cancer. I mourned for the friend I lost and I prayed that somewhere, a stranger would understand the significance of my need and provide a lifesaving gift.

Eventually, word came that a donor match was found. I was told that a man, somewhere in the world, had volunteered his stem cells. His actions spoke the words I so desperately needed to hear. “I’m sorry you have to go through this. I’m here for you.”

Approximately five months after Jessica’s death, I received the cells of this unknown man. The weeks leading up to the procedure were uncertain and scary. Doctors warned of the potential dangers resulting from transplanting the cells of another person into my body. One doctor even told me that I was more likely to die from the transplant than reach a cure. Most of the professionals offered very little optimism about the likelihood of my survival.

Despite the odds and as a result of the transplant, I have been cancer-free for the last five years. I miss Jessica’s presence in my life, but have used the experience of our friendship to reach out to other parents with a cancer diagnosis; to say the words Jessica used to say to me. “I’m sorry you have to go through this. I’m here for you.”

This past summer, my husband, Randy, and ten year-old son, Eric, and I traveled to Germany to meet the man who saved my life. My stem cell donor and his family were gracious and loving, and it was clear the transplant process meant as much to them as it did to me and my family. We celebrated this very unique relationship and forged a lasting friendship.

I can’t help but think that Jessica was with me during my time in Germany - her empathetic nature celebrating the connection shared by two strangers, forever linked by science. And I bet she was saying, “I’m glad you are going through this. I’m here with you.”

My path to empathy began as a young girl. I now know that I am considered an “empath” or a “highly sensitive” person. Even as a young girl, any sad, sappy movie would send me into “cry baby” tears. I also struggled watching a sad or scary story on the nightly news; or hearing that someone had lost their grandparent or pet; tears that would embarrass me as I continued this pattern into my teen years. Feeling the burden of others so easily felt like a heavy burden to me. What was wrong with me? So often, no one else around me appeared quite as upset. I remember being called “sensitive”; also “dramatic”. But it was hard for me to control my emotions when I perceived hurt around me.

Thankfully, I was able to turn this burden into a life calling. When I was 16 years old, a good friend and classmate of mine had twins. Yes, she was 16 years old as well, with newborn twins. The newborns had to stay in a neonatal intensive care unit two hours from our hometown. I was able to accompany her on a few after school visits up to the hospital to see the babies. It was there that I saw my calling. I vividly remember feeling for the parents of these little babies and wanting so badly to be a part of the team helping them. I wanted to be that person taking care of these little guys. I realized that being a nurse looked so rewarding. I would love to care for others in this way!

As an adult, I have pursued a career in nursing. Although I did not go into the neonatal specialty, I have found my niche in nursing. Sometimes it takes a while to find exactly where you are supposed to be. Working with cancer patients has become my passion and I can’t imagine doing anything else. Many times, as oncology nurses, we get asked, “isn’t that soooooo sad?” I always struggle to answer that question. There is always the implication that we must mope around feeling sorry for ourselves and everyone around us. Yes, it is sad. And frustrating. And maddening. Cancer Sucks! But for me, I want to help those in this awful situation. What can I do to help? It is such an honor to be there for others in this way. And it reminds me to always be grateful. I get to be inspired by others on a daily basis. I get to surround myself with people facing hard things with bravery and courage. What a gift!

Fast forward to now, age 40, working as a nurse with breast cancer patients every day, I feel this is my calling. I now realize this burden that I felt for feeling other’s pain can be harnessed into a great gift. I find a natural ability to be there with my patients and their loved ones. I have to work extra hard not to take these stories home with me in my heart and mind. I still catch myself waking up in the night thinking of my patients, wondering how they are doing, that is only natural. But what was once a great burden in my heart, I now recognize as God’s gift of compassion given to me to pass onto others. I go home with my heart full most days.

I often meet these women in their toughest hour. Just diagnosed with breast cancer, their lives have changed forever. Empathy allows me to look past the cancer. What is their story? Who was this woman before this diagnosis? Still the same person with family, roles, responsibilities, loves, talents, dreams, goals, you get the picture. The ability to look past the cancer, to listen to the individual and learn what matters most to them during this time, and then say to them, “this matters”. I am here to help. That is empathy to me.

I had breakfast with my friend Nora this morning. At the restaurant, Nora told our server that we needed some “girl time.” I hadn’t seen Nora for a few weeks since school let out. I met Nora two years ago when she was a student in my college composition class. She was so talented with English skills, I asked her to be my work study and peer tutor, which she has been for two semesters. She has been my friend from the beginning.

Nora has accomplished much in those two years. She maintains a 4.0 GPA, took 19 credit hours last semester, serves on a college library board, held an office in the Non-Traditional Student Organization, and was inducted into Phi Theta Kappa, a national honor society. Many students aspire and achieve these successes, but not all students have experienced the struggles Nora has.

Only three years ago, Nora was in her tenth year of homelessness. The deciding factor that led Nora out of homelessness was her six-minute death due to alcohol-related health issues.

It was this death that caused Nora to make changes and choose life. Her doctors in Boulder told her that if she did not stop drinking, they would not likely bring her back again. This was the second occasion her heart stopped due to her alcoholism. Nora moved to the Fort Lyon Supportive Residential Community in Las Animas, Colorado (which opened in September of 2013), and began her recovery.

I teach college composition classes for Otero Junior College (OJC) at Fort Lyon. Residents may opt to take college courses while they recover and live at the Fort for up to two years. Nora is not the only one who has succeeded in school. At the end of April, twelve students who were currently or had been residents at Fort Lyon graduated with their associates’ degrees from OJC. All graduated with honors. One student, Israel Harris, delivered a powerful message at commencement. Three years ago, Israel was in his fifth year of homelessness in Denver where he lived in a camp beside the South Platte River.

From the beginning, I wanted to teach at Fort Lyon. The program offers hope and a new chance at life through long-term recovery. A few years ago, I had some life struggles of my own but overcame them. Maybe I wanted to offer a little bit of hope, too.

Others in the community and even some coworkers did not share my enthusiasm about Fort Lyon. I heard comments such as, “Do they even take baths?” “I’m for helping people, but why do they have to be in my backyard?” “They’re nothing but a bunch of bums!” Many people do not acknowledge that homeless people are just people—just like the rest of us. Sometimes they’re homeless because they’ve made bad choices, but sometimes life was just hard, and they turned to drugs or alcohol. Many younger homeless people have graduated out of the foster care system and into homelessness. Many are veterans, and many have mental illnesses. Almost without exception, homeless women experienced sexual, physical, or emotional abuse in their young lives, and certainly experienced abuse while on the streets. Most homeless men experienced similar traumatic events.

After I began listening to and reading my students’ heart wrenching stories, I looked at homeless people differently. I always had empathy for homeless people, but I didn’t really understand the multifaceted causes and long-term effects of homelessness, and I certainly didn’t understand that homeless people once had rich and rewarding and ordinary lives.

In my students’ stories, one message became resoundingly clear. When they were homeless, one of the worst treatments they received was to be overlooked and ignored. Being ignored made them feel like they were non-human or non-existent. It was even worse, many told me, than to be yelled at to “Get a job,” to have expletives shouted at them, or to be called names. Now when I see someone “flying a sign” by the exit or on-ramps or outside the local WalMart, I look beyond the exterior and see a human with a story. And whenever I can, I simply say hello.

For the people who have made changes in their lives through rehabilitation facilities like Fort Lyon and are working to get beyond the grasp of homelessness, one of the greatest gifts formerly homeless people say they have received has been to be given a chance—a chance to recover, a chance to be educated, and a chance to be heard. If they’re given a chance, the possibilities of life, work, and friendship are endless.

The first time that I fully understood what empathy was and what it meant to be empathetic was during my sophomore year of college when I took a job with a local senior care facility. During employee training, we discussed how the seniors in the facility often longed for empathy, but more often received sympathy. Empathy is the ability to understand and share the feelings of another, whereas sympathy is the feeling of sorrow for someone else’s circumstances. Given this information, I was forced to step back and question what could I do to better understand the mind-sets of many of the residents in the facility and how I could help improve their quality of life.

Most of the residents living in the facility have been through significantly more hardships in their lifetimes than I can identify with. Some of them had lived through multiple wars, others had lost children, and yet others just struggled with the loneliness and depression that plagues senior care facilities. Of course I sympathized with every resident and each of their stories, but empathizing with them was much more difficult of a task.

I am very blessed in this life and I am very fortunate not to have encountered too many struggles in my 21 years on this planet. I was raised in an amazing little town with great friends and a wonderful support system. Because of this, I couldn’t relate to many of the residents’ feelings; however I could imagine them. I could imagine the frustration I would feel if my body didn’t work but my mind was as sharp as ever; or how I would feel if my family wasn’t just a phone call away. This ability to imagine some of these circumstances allowed me to empathize with the residents and in turn form some amazing friendships.

I got an even more powerful lesson in empathy the next semester when I did a service-learning trip to the International Rescue Committee (IRC) in Atlanta, Georgia. The IRC provides services to refugees entering the United States to help promote self-reliance and successful integration. During the week, I met some of the most resilient, beautiful, and hard-working people, however one person in specific left a powerful impact on me.

Afia was a mother who had successfully sought refuge after leaving her home country of Rwanda. Afia didn’t speak very much English but she was beyond dedicated to learn, and her drive to be successful in America was apparent. One day at the IRC the teacher was teaching vocabulary surrounding the family: baby, child, teenager, ect. The group of refugees then had to spend time talking about each of their families. Afia said she had 14 children. This alone was shocking to me, as it was so different than the American concept of children and families. As Afia continued we would soon learn that 8 of the 14 children were dead, 4 were kidnapped, and 2 followed her to America.

Rwanda is a country plagued by war. Although Afia’s English was not good enough to elaborate, based on the stories of other refugees in similar situations it is easy to guess that many of her children were forced to be soldiers or taken for other reasons. Following this story it was hard to empathize with Afia and rather I immediately jumped to sympathy. Throughout the week, I had to remind myself that Afia didn’t want me to pity her or feel sorry for her; rather she wanted me to teach her English, to speak with her about life in America, and to give her hope for the future.

As Afia and I grew closer towards the end of the week, she taught me another important concept, the concept of Ubuntu. Ubuntu is an ancient African word meaning ‘humanity to others.’ It also means ‘I am what I am because of who we all are.’ Ubuntuism includes essential human virtues of compassion and humanity. As we left to return home, Afia told me she was better for having known me and she thanked me for the compassion and humanity that I had showed towards her during my short time at the IRC. While Afia said that she is better for having known me, the truth is that I am better for having known her.

Finally, my biggest lesson in empathy came my junior year when I was afforded the opportunity to study abroad. In the spring semester I set out on a journey that would take me to Alicante, Spain. Spain brought with it something magical. Spain took me back in time; suddenly I felt like I was five years old again, struggling to perfect a language and copy the customs that I witnessed around me. Everyday I was learning something new and everyday I grew a little bit. The difference was that I was constantly questioning everything, and many days it was obvious that I was not Spanish.

What became significant about this experience is that this time I was on the receiving end of the empathy. When I walked into a restaurant and spent 10 minutes trying to translate the menu the waitress could choose whether to get frustrated with me or to smile and help explain words that made absolutely no sense to me. Although I ran into people who would get frustrated, or wouldn’t understand how hard I was trying to fit in. I also ran into people who were extremely empathetic, who helped nurture and cultivate my perceptions of Spain and the Spanish language. The beautiful thing about being on the receiving end of empathy is that at the end of the day you realize how many kind, generous, and empathetic people that there truly are in the world.

To conclude, I know for sure that these experiences have forever changed me. I will be a better worker, a more understanding friend, and an involved global citizen. These experiences have and will continue to allow me to contribute to the world in a positive way and it all started with an increased awareness of what it means to be empathetic and an active decision to constantly try to empathize with others.

One of my experiences with empathy comes from traveling around Southeast Asia. I was in Siem Reap, Cambodia with some newly made global friends when we went to have dinner at an organization called New Hope. This organization trains locals in skills such as waiting, cooking, and serving so that they can find employment in the cities in those occupations. Before eating our group was invited into the classrooms of some young students studying English. They had been learning all day (by this time is was near 6pm). I was amazed how much effort they were putting into how to say numbers 10-30 in English. Most of them shared their workbooks with their friends since there wasn’t enough to go around. I drove by some of their homes on a tuk tuk and it was evident they were living in extreme poverty. These children were anxious to try out their English skills with us. The brave few would ask “How are you? What is your name?”. The only words I knew in Cambodian were “Thank you” and “Hello”.

Cambodia’s history is nothing short of heart breaking. It was noticeable that there were very few elderly people due to the mass genocide in the early 1970’s by their leader Po Pot. Cambodia is still stricken with poverty and hard times but tourism has started to bring in money and jobs. These students passion to learn was something I could emphasize with. They wanted to be able to created a better life for themselves by learning English and acquire skills to working in an industry recently developed with tourism. Wanted a better life for myself brought me to Cambodia in some fashion. I moved to Melbourne, Australia to FINALLY start Occupational Therapy school. After being waitlisted and rejected from more schools in the States than I’d like to admit I packed the bags and went off for a better adventure. Since Australians travel extensively I decided to follow suit by traveling the ever popular Southeast Asia route, which landed me in Cambodian. I understood the burning desire to learn new things for a better future that the kids were working towards. I gave up my life in the states out of determination that I was GOING to be an OT and make a better career than the one I was in. Our stories have a parallel nature; the kids and I have completely different cultures, languages, knowledge, lifestyles, families, experiences, opportunities, and backgrounds however, we share the same value toward education and wanting to learn. This experience proved to me that it’s human nature to strive to do better for yourself. Education is a powerful tool that can get you many places, for me it was exploring parts of the world I never thought I’d be exposed to and for those cute kids in Siem Reap, it will bring them to their dreams as well.

I was recently asked to talk with 5th grade students who were struggling to practice empathy, maintain healthy friendship, and show resilience. The P2E crew is committed to empathy (walking in another’s shoes so to experience how they live, feel, and be) at the heart of all we do. So when I thought about being in my 5th grade shoes again, persistent memories of the past kept me awake at night. Sad memories. Eleven year-old me, ugh.

Fifth grade: the worst year of my 19 years in elementary, middle, high school, 4 years of college and 2 years of getting my master’s degree. Oh, there were tough times before and after 5th grade: acne, braces, studying, being benched, getting dumped, even some rebellion, but nothing compared to 5th grade in Mr. Howard’s class. Vivid scenes that as a school counselor, a mother, and the P2E founder, I didn’t want to replay or even admit happened. Rationalizing, I would say, “That was 25-years-ago, why would I share it?” However, one of the things that has bothered me in my research is that many, many people have reported being bullied yet very few admit to being the bully. How can we reverse these cycles if we don’t own our behavior? How can we expect kids to change aggression and violence if we don’t give them practical examples of those who have?

Courageous. It’s the respect word (respect word= a personal quality I respect about myself and others can respect about me) I chose for myself this past January. At the time it seemed like a strong representation of me, but in light of my 5th grade story I wanted to hide.

Fact: Empathy is much harder to live out than to teach.

This was an empathy opportunity for me: to bring up something painful for the benefit of another. I didn’t have to tell them the details, just relay that I had personally walked in their shoes. I could show them, not only was empathy something I taught, but if I had an experience in my story that could help them I would share it. So with a tender amount of courage I decided that keeping my 5th grade shoes to myself to appear perfect would render my message of empathy ineffective.

There were no VIP's in attendance other than the gracious hearts and faces of 11-year-old boys and girls struggling to take care of one another. In my time with them, I was able to say:

“In 5th grade I was a mean girl.”

“I didn’t hurt my friends with my fists, I hurt them with my words.”

“Because sad things were happening to me outside of school, I felt out of control in school.”

“I was mean to my friends because I was hurting on the inside.”

“The bully and the victim can be the same person, it just depends on the setting.”

They smiled. They clapped, and together we talked about how to be a good friend, what to do if they made mistakes, and how to show resilience if others were being unkind. I probably got more out of the experience than the kids did, but that’s the beauty of expressing empathy. Not only do you encourage, understand, and help others, empathy can shine light into dark places in your own life. If given the opportunity, would you let some light into a dark place for the benefit of someone else? As Martin Luther King Jr. said,

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that.”

Telling your story to someone who needs to hear it is more tangible than giving them money, facts or flattery. But, I must warn you, this way of living can open you up to critique and judgement. However,

I believe it’s more important to appear human than perfect.

It’s worth the risk. So try it; don’t air your dirty laundry on Facebook, but look for opportunities to help people whose shoes you have walked in. Hearing from you about your experience may be the key to helping them get through theirs. It might be your son needing to hear you struggled in reading too, or a friend going through a divorce who doesn’t know you were married once before. Carrie Block says, “We are more alike than different.” Look around, be courageous, and your eyes will be opened to empathy opportunities all around you.

My first dose of empathy was given to me by my mother. She was born with cerebral palsy, something she wouldn't know until the age of 54 when an orthopedic surgeon told her... after her first joint replacement. Growing up, she knew she was different, always hurting physically, but never, ever complained. She is strong, an incredible role model of someone who suffers daily, sometimes teased by peers as a child, but she never makes excuses. She's never walked a balanced step in her life, but as a teenager she car-hopped for her parent's drive-in business without complaint. She took regular PE even though running and sports "just weren't her thing".

She never wore beautiful high heels. I remember when she took me shoe shopping for my 6th grade continuation. Tears filled her eyes as she watched me walk in my 2 inch heels. She was so happy that I was able to walk in them without stumbling, without pain; something she had never done. She cheered me on at my sporting and music events, things she didn't have the coordination to do. There is so much more my mom wanted for me, like a college education and being able to stand on my own two feet...in beautiful shoes.

I credit my mom for starting me on a path that helps me see others for who they are, not who they are not. I've always had a heart for people, especially children. I became a teacher to help children learn. I became an administrator to be their voice, their advocate, and sometimes their accountability. Having my mother show me so much helped me see children for their potential, not their limitations. Throughout my career, I've been able to help provide opportunities, whether online learning, summer school, gifted programming, or alternative programming for children who needed someone to see the possibilities. I can't do that without trying to see life from their perspective, by trying to walk in their shoes...Thanks, mom!

Lori Benton- Ph.D, Director of Assessment and Gifted Education Lewis-Palmer School District #38

Struggle. For the first 18 years or so of my life, I identified myself as a person who struggled. My struggles were real for me. Are there people with bigger struggles? Of course, but these are mine and this is my story.

I was born 4 weeks early and weighed 4 ½ pounds. Being premature, had some long lasting impacts. As a baby and child, I was sickly, sick all the time. If a germ crossed the state lines, I would catch it, and catch it bad. Who gets chicken pox on the bottoms of their feet and in their eyes? There were struggles with bed wetting, fine motor coordination, reading, math, and self control. Some would say self control is something still plaguing me. If I had ever been evaluated for ADD/ADHD I am sure I would have been diagnosed with it, and medicated up to my eyeballs. I started school behind and stayed behind for a long time. I used humor and sarcasm to cover what I felt were my shortcomings, something I still catch myself doing that today. Not doing work felt better to me than showing that I couldn’t do it.

My academic issues qualified me for Special Education, and I was placed on an IEP. School supports started in first grade and followed me to middle school. There were supports for reading, math, and fine motor and eye/hand coordination skills. The first book I ever read on my own was Danny and the Dinosaur, it was a RIF (Reading is Fundamental) book. I was so excited and proud of myself, but I didn’t share that joy with anyone. I was embarrassed, my classmates were able to read that book by themselves long before I could. My handwriting was terrible, I couldn’t tie my shoes (my brain knew what to do, but it couldn’t get my hands to follow through), and hitting a baseball was out of the question. One of my memories of special education help is of me standing in a classroom and trying to hit a tennis ball that hung from a string. My goal was to tap it five time with a plastic bat without stopping the ball between taps. I stood in that room with tears streaming down my face because I. COULD. NOT. DO. IT..

Do I hate special education? Absolutely not. At the time I hated it, I hated being pulled from my class for extra help, I hated that it was so hard for me to read aloud in class and that my classmates had to wait for me, I hated that I couldn’t keep up, I hated that I never was able to get basic math facts fast enough when we played round the world flash cards. I struggled in class, and teachers struggled with me. But, long after, I have a great appreciation for it. I have a great appreciation for teachers, that is probably why I became one.

Fast forward. As a high school student my grades were just good enough. I didn’t try very hard and I put forth minimal effort. Why? Well, it was my experience that no matter how hard I tried the results were the same as they were with little effort. I felt some people had preconceived notions of me and what I was able to do. Heck, I didn’t have a lot of belief in myself. There was a high school English teacher who told me that I had better figure out what I wanted to do, because college was not an option for me. Looking back, I am sure she meant it, it was not said in that reverse psychology way meant for me to get my rear in gear. It was said out of concern that I had not found a direction. Within a month of that conversation, I was called into the counseling office to discuss my ACT score. The thoughts going through my head were, “oh crap, I bombed, I am not going to graduate, they are going to hold me back.” This was my lack of self-confidence and self-esteem talking.

The conversation went something like this. It was a long time ago, so I don’t remember it exactly.

Counselor: Like I said, it is good. Can you explain to me how you can get this score on the ACT and only have a 2.2 grade point average?

Me: I guess no one ever expected anything more from me.

Counselor: What are you going to do about that?

Me: I don’t know.

My answer should have been “expect more from myself.” But, I was 17, it took me a while to get there. And, I did. With the help of those who did expect more from me, and by helping myself. Now, instead of identifying as someone who struggles, I identify myself as someone who is hardworking and resilient.

As an educator and counselor, I make sure I let special education students, and all students who are overcoming things, know that I empathize with them, I know that their struggles are real. I tell them my story. It’s amazing how you look at people and understand them differently when you know their story. Even when I don’t know someone’s story, I know that they have one, and that allows me to begin to understand them, relate to them, and have empathy for them. This is my story.

-Amy Sienkowski, P2E Crew

My path to empathy has made many twists and turns, encountering some bumps and bruises along the way but always taking me to a better place than before. My first experiences around empathy were led by my parents and grandparents. They were continually looking out for others with their time, talents or finances. This was actually played out daily in our home as my little brother had ADHD. This disorder basically runs rampant in my extended family so I was constantly challenged to put myself in his as well as others shoes. This was by no means something that came naturally, my first instinct was to fight it and I did. I tolerated him just fine - wasn’t that enough? I did not want to walk in his shoes, I wanted to be annoyed and exercise my right to tattle and complain at his level of energy and quick wit.

My parents did not give up on me learning the art of empathy. I was pushed to move past mere tolerance and land at developing a healthy respect. As I moved from middle school to high school all that my mom and dad had modeled started to actually take shape. I moved from following their trail to blazing my own. I began to actually respect the fact that he could just be on the move all the time and he was hilarious.

This gamechanger is what a good friend of mine would call a kairos moment. Kairos is a Greek word meaning a pivotal moment in time. My trajectory drastically changed and crazy things began to happen; I became protective of him. I discovered a new and heightened admiration for my parents and his teachers. I spent several summers volunteering at a camp that had a special week for those with exceptionalities. Preparation for that week as a counselor was pretty intense. We were put through numerous exercises to be able to experience how our campers lived. Simple tasks that I would take for granted and perform without much thought or effort proved tedious and time intensive for the campers. During that week I cared for their every need, which stretched me in ways that I didn’t know were possible; advancing me down the path even further. I ended up majoring in special education.My drive was to be an advocate for students with exceptionalities and help level the playing field of acadamia.

With kiddos of my own now, empathy is something I desire for them to embrace at an early age. We are always looking for teachable moments to emphasize the importance of this trait. When asked at my children’s school what I would like to see them learn, I actually wrote down “empathy” along with the typical academic hopes.

Reflecting back on my walk I have discovered that the art of empathy is something that must be continually practiced. Much like working out maintains your endurance, empathy must be exercised. I look forward to this journey and leading my own kids down this path just as my parents did for me years ago.

Our paths to empathy are forged by individual experiences and the people we encounter along the way. For me, the path has been a long and winding one, paved with successes and failures continue to teach me the value of empathy as well as self-discovery. All my life, I've been captivated by the stories of others and compelled to make connections. As a young child I remember looking out into the darkness at all the lights glimmering from people's homes, and wondering who lived in them. What are their lives like? Are they in love? Are they happy? Sad? Do they like to eat pizza? What are their dreams?

What are their stories?

This curiosity helps define me; inspires me to go and experience.

My first lessons on empathy came from my mom, St. Claire (my siblings and I call her that. She is the nicest person you will ever meet!) She taught me that we shouldn't judge others because we can never really know what's going in someone else's life. We can't assume that, just because someone we interact with is in a bad mood, we are the cause of it! St. Claire always encouraged me to give others a chance. And every time I was wise enough to take her advice, it worked! It is such a powerful lesson, and one I constantly remind myself of as an adult. Thanks, Mom, for that golden nugget! ;-)

My next lessons on empathy came from joining the Peace Corps. Since middle school, I had yearned to live in different cultures and experience their languages, customs, traditions, holidays... get a real taste of other's lives. Later, these dreams began coming true. When I first arrived in Moldova as a Peace Corps volunteer, I was most worried about the lack of running water and Western amenities like electricity. (My village had limited electricity and no running water.) A few of the teachers in the village spoke a little bit of English, but I was the first Western my village had ever encountered.

As months passed, the lack of running water and electricity were easy to adjust to. It was missing my home and family, and figuring out how to navigate the culture that was difficult. When I started Peace Corps I had such idealist views. I wanted to "help" people and change the world. The funny thing is that my experience ended up helping me. I had the mindset (I am embarrassed about this) that I was here to teach the Moldovan people 'the American Way', and that our way of doing things was the only way.

As I spent more time with my students, fellow teachers, neighbors, host family, and villagers, I listened. I watched. I lived as they did, and in doing so realized how strong, ingenious, generous, wise, and talented the Moldovan people were. I realized there were so many ways to do things that I was humbled. I soon learned to appreciative all the lessons the Moldovans were teaching me; from gratitude and independence, to finding happiness without all the things so many of us in the Western world think we need. I saw life from a different perspective and it changed me.

It was beautiful, and reminded me that in the end, we may look different or have different experiences or possessions, but we still want the same basic things in life. It was a powerful lesson, and one that still motivates me to travel the world, meeting all kinds of people and collecting their stories!

From my adventures in the Peace Corps I went on to work and travel to all 7 continents and many countries. I still long to go new places and meet new people. It reminds me that we are more alike than different. It reminds me to be grateful for this big blue marble we call home. It reminds me that by making connections with people all over the world, we make the world smaller.

After years of living and traveling abroad with no permanent address to call my own, I craved a mailbox, a garden (still working on this), and being close to my mom. So, I settled in Palmer Lake, Colorado and started teaching at Lewis Palmer School District. I felt a little bad about this choice at first because I had always dreamed of working in urban, diversified schools like Cabrini Green, or remote rural schools, or on an Indian reservation... I couldn't have picked anything further from that when I chose Lewis Palmer!

I felt like I wasn't needed, or couldn't make a difference. How quickly that changed as I started teaching and learning that everyone has struggles and things that they go through, regardless of their zip code or socioeconomic status. All kids need good teachers and adults they count on, whether it is in Monument , Colorado or inner city Chicago, Illinois. As a teacher, I constantly meet inspiring students and families, each going through their own stories and struggles.

Raising a child is also teaching me a lot about empathy. I had my daughter at an "advanced" age (it is like dead man walking in medical terms on the maternity ward, even though I wasn't that old!) I have been so humbled by this journey through parenthood. It truly is the toughest job. I was always helpful to friends and family and parents of my students who had kids, but I truly never understood. Now having experienced it, I wish I would have been more helpful and understanding. I worried and felt a bit isolated for the first few years (even though I had a great support network). I felt depressed, and can be pretty hard on myself to this day. Parenting has really helped me remember not to judge, but rather to try and put myself in others' shoes. I am so thankful for this experience, and trying not to worry so much and be kinder to others!

I feel like I have had such rich experiences, wise mentors, and wonderful people surrounding me to help me become a better and more empathic person. Even with all these great experiences, however, I still struggle with empathy day to day. I am constantly challenged with being overly critical of people, and sometimes judge books by their covers. In these moments I have to revisit the wise old advice from St. Claire, and it still holds true as an adult.

I always try to install empathy, tolerance, respect, curiosity, and love into my classroom. It is my secret agenda. So, when Jennicca Mabe came up with this brilliant idea, I couldn't jump fast enough to be a part of this beautiful movement. The Path2Empathy project and the ladies I am working with have also been great teachers to me. I'm deeply thankful for this experience, and eternally grateful to all of my teachers along the way.

For our launch post on the Path2Empathy blog I want to lay a foundation of what you will find here. First, we are real people. The P2E crew is group of women who like to have fun, explore, and push the limits in and out of our schools. We are wives and mothers, we are educators and adventures. We have traveled abroad and been stay-at-home-moms. We care about the future and want to see the simplicity of the ancient practice of empathy in our homes and schools.

Second, you will find imperfection. In a book I recently read, “The Gifts of Imperfection” by Brene Brown, she encourages the reader to embrace not only the imperfection in themselves, but those around them. Isn’t that refreshing? The idea of embracing something imperfect in order to appreciate it for what it really is. No mask, no attempt to portray something we aren’t, no pressure to perform or be judged, just the the truth. The truth in this blog may be considering another's point of view, a misplaced comma, or wrong verb tense (because I’m not very good with grammar). Embracing the truth in someone else is the only way to really walk in their shoes. By not stressing over the imperfections in others, I am convinced we will discover the relational beauty, clarification, and adventure we are looking for.

Speaking of imperfect, my own Path2Empathy can be summed up with that one word. Not only do I find imperfections the glaring theme in my story, I can see the imperfections of Jennicca Mabe as the backbone to who, where, and what I embrace today. There was never a definitive moment when I chose the Path2Empathy, yet a combination of events both beautiful and tragic encouraged me to find it and start walking on it. Like many of you, my story is laced with humanity, but with grace from those around me and my faith, I’ve experienced love, hope, healing, and growth.

On this path I have undoubtedly hurt people and been hurt. This is why empathy is so important, because we have all made mistakes and want the grace and forgiveness of those we have wounded. Walking in someone else’s shoes takes courage and maturity and the ability to lay down bitterness no matter how much we have been hurt. By looking at the world through another perspective we find not only the joy of seeing our world grow, but a missing piece to healing. I want to walk in your shoes and invite you to walk in mine. This is the Path2Empathy...join me.